


In Another Place, Not Here

by orphan_account



Category: due South
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-12
Updated: 2009-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ray has to get out of Chicago, and the only place he can go is due north.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Another Place, Not Here

**Author's Note:**

> My eternal gratitude to [](http://meresy.livejournal.com/profile)[**meresy**](http://meresy.livejournal.com/), [](http://malnpudl.livejournal.com/profile)[**malnpudl**](http://malnpudl.livejournal.com/) and [](http://lamentables.livejournal.com/profile)[**lamentables**](http://lamentables.livejournal.com/) for their keen editorial advice, and for telling me that sometimes it's okay if a story doesn't end with a sex scene.

  


  
**In Another Place, Not Here**   


Ray gets the earliest flight he can. He pays an arm and a leg, but that’s okay. Last-minute tickets are always expensive, and he doesn’t care how much it costs: he just knows he has to get out of Chicago.

Ray’s always liked takeoff. It used to make Stella nervous, but he loves the build-up and the rush of it, the whine of the engines as the plane gathers strength and the wheels leave the runway and the earth drops away below. That was his favorite part of flying, actually: looking out the window, and watching the city transform from a jumbled chaos of cars and people into neat, orderly grids of streets and buildings and houses. He usually likes to count how many people have swimming pools in their backyards.

But it’s different today. Today he curls up into his seat and shivers, and can’t look out the window. He’s afraid of what he’ll see. When the seatbelt sign dings, he keeps his belt on. And whenever the stewardess comes by with her little wheeled cart, Ray orders vodka, no ice and slugs it down fast. The alcohol allows him to drift for a little while, all the way to Winnipeg.

There’s time to kill at the airport there, and so Ray browses through magazines he doesn’t want to read, and looks at tacky souvenirs he’d never consider buying. He’s too jittery to sit, too wired to do much more than pace. He should feel drunk, but instead he just feels sick.

He goes to the men’s room, and washes his hands over and over and over. By the time his flight is finally called, his skin is rubbed raw.

The flight from Winnipeg up to Churchill is a bumpy one. Turbulence starts to rock the small twin turboprop plane from the second they hit cruising altitude, and the endless up and down and back and forth doesn’t mix well with the burn of alcohol in his empty stomach.

It turns out that throwing up in the aisle of an 11-seat passenger plane, and then living with the smell for the rest of the flight, isn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to Ray. Not by a long shot.

And the pilots are nice about it, anyway.

They land just after 11pm. It’s cold, and it’s dark, and when he climbs down the freezing metal staircase and hits tarmac, Ray feels like he’s just set foot on the moon. The Churchill airport terminal is ablaze with lights, but it’s pitch-black everywhere else and the land is flat flat flat.

It’s damn cold, too. So cold it steals his breath. The wind sweeping in off the runway tears through him and makes his eyes water, and Ray instantly hunches back against it. He tries to make himself as small as possible. His body knew this kind of cold, once. Lived with it, day in and day out, for nearly four months. But he’d forgotten, somehow. Forgotten how much it hurt.

Inside the terminal it’s blissfully warm and bright, and he waits for his single bag (no carry-ons, not in a plane that small) with a kind of bleary patience that is the gift of total exhaustion. 52 hours now since he’s last slept, and he doesn’t know how long it’ll take him to get to Fraser’s place.

He supposes he could just ask somebody. Everybody in Canada knows everybody, right? He could ask the sweet-faced Native girl behind the Hertz desk. “Ben Fraser’s place?” he’d say, and she could probably point him in the right direction. But Ray doesn’t want to ask her. He doesn’t want to ask anyone. Fraser’s name would stick in his throat. And anyway, it’s late.

There’s a battered phone book dangling next to a bank of payphones, and he flips through the four pages devoted to Churchill’s residents, finds the “F”s, and blinks down at the tiny black text. _B. Fraser 292 Hearne Street…(204) 563-7563._

It’s a shock, seeing Fraser’s name in the phone book. Like Fraser’s a real person, with a telephone number and an address, instead of someone Ray dreamed up to make himself feel better about the world.

But that’s a crazy thought, and Christ, he needs to sleep.

He shoulders his duffle bag—pretty light, considering it contains his whole life—and heads over to the girl at the Hertz desk.

“Can you call me a cab?”

***

Churchill is still and silent. He can’t see much in the winter gloom, and there aren’t a lot of streetlights. Not a lot of light at all, actually, and he finds the darkness unsettling. The part of Canada he’d seen with Fraser had been pretty bright, what with sunlight and starlight constantly being reflected off of miles and miles of clean white snow. The aurora lit up things pretty good, too, but it’s the wrong time of year for the north to be putting on a light show.

He hunches up against the passenger door of the cab, and tries to make himself small. He’s shivering, and it’s more than nerves, or because he’s freezing. This place feels wrong. It’s not what he wanted it to be.

The cabbie turns down Hearne Street, and Ray stares blankly out the window. The houses here aren’t like the houses in Chicago. They’re just square wood structures with cheap wood siding, and most of them are built low to the ground. It looks like the houses are crouching down, maybe in defense against the wind, or because of the dark, starless sky that looms above. As the small, vulnerable-looking homes glide by, Ray tries to picture Fraser inside one of them. But he can’t.

“It always dark like this?” he asks the cabbie, who hasn’t said a word to him since Ray slid into the car and mumbled Fraser’s address.

“Oh yes,” the guy says. He’s got some kind of accent, but Ray can’t place it. It does make him think of bright sunshine and dry, hot sand. “It’s winter now. Long nights. Very dark.”

Right. He’d forgotten about that. “How do you deal with it?”

“Not so well,” the cabbie says. “I’m Muslim. It’s hard to find Mecca in a place where there is no sun.”

“Yeah,” Ray agrees.

When they pull up in front of 292, he tips the guy a little extra.

Fraser’s place—or what he hopes is Fraser’s place—looks like pretty much every other house on the street. Square two-story deal, built in close to its neighbors. Bright red siding, and at least that seems a little like something Fraser would choose.

It’s nearly midnight now, and the house is as silent as the town that surrounds it. Empty, or sleeping. Still, he’s come a hell of a long way, and it’s cold. He just needs to see Fraser’s face, and everything will be okay.

He knocks, and then tries the doorknob. Unlocked, of course. Some things don’t change.

The door swings open silently, but he can instantly hear movement inside the house. A lamp clicks on in another room; he can see the light spilling out into the hall. There’s the click of nails on wood, and suddenly 85lbs of deaf half-wolf is pushing him back against the door and licking frantically at his face and ears.

“Hey, Dief! Buddy!” he says, and closes his eyes, letting Dief slobber all over him. There’s a feeling in his chest, some kind of tightness, but he ignores it and wraps his arms around Diefenbaker, who yips a little in excitement.

“Dief, down!”

Fraser once lectured him about the uselessness of giving orders to a deaf wolf, but maybe Fraser’s forgotten. There’s real anger in his voice, and it makes Ray wince a little. Dief goes on happily swiping at Ray’s chin for a couple more seconds, until Fraser finally drags the wolf away. Ray immediately misses Dief, slobber and all, because it looks like Dief’s the only one who’s actually glad to see him.

Fraser definitely isn’t wearing a happy look. It’s an expression Ray hasn’t seen on him often, but Ray is familiar enough with Fraser’s moods to know that he’s pissed off the Canadian. Ray’s not sure if he really expected Fraser to be overjoyed that he just showed up on his doorstep, but Ray hadn’t expected anger, either.

“Ray,” Fraser says, and he sounds tired. “What are you doing here?”

Ray crouches down and rubs Dief’s ears, giving the wolf a good scratch. Dief closes his eyes in bliss.

“I had to get out of Chicago.”

“I see,” Fraser says, but it’s clear that he doesn’t. “And how long are you planning to—”

“I dunno.” He risks a glance up at Fraser’s face. Fraser’s eyes are still puffy from sleep, and there’s a pillow crease on the side of his face. He looks shockingly older. Older and more tired than Ray’d expected.

But then it’s been a long, long time.

“I didn’t have anywhere else to go,” Ray says, hoping Fraser will believe that, at least.

Fraser folds his arms over his chest and nods a little. Permission. Maybe it’s just because he doesn’t see a point to interrogating Ray in the hallway, but Ray doesn’t care. He’s just relieved that it doesn’t look like Fraser is going to kick him out.

“You look exhausted.” There’s concern in Fraser’s voice, and Ray makes himself stare at Dief. If he looks at Fraser now, he’s going to start bawling like a baby, and there’s no way he’s going to put either of them through _that_.

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I am.”

Fraser sighs, and scoops up Ray’s duffle. “Come on, then.”

Ray’s only a little shocked when Fraser leads him into the bedroom.

***

Things tend to happen pretty quickly in Canada. Ray’s thought about it some, and he’s decided that the whole country exists in some sort of weird time-space continuum.

One day you’re in Chicago taking down an international terrorist, and the next second you’re on the wing of an airplane. Falling into a snow bank. Climbing a mountain. Getting onto a dogsled. He’s not sure if his theory is scientific, exactly, but Ray’s pretty sure that Canada is sort of…accelerated. Everything up here happens so quickly that you don’t even have time to be scared, or worried. You just have to hang on tight and hope for the best.

Or maybe that’s just how things work around Fraser. Damned if Ray knows the difference anymore.

All he knows is that one second he was dead on his feet and watching Fraser grab some extra pillows from the linen closet, and then Fraser is hustling Ray into the bathroom to pee and brush his teeth. Once Ray finishes in the bathroom Fraser descends again, tugging off Ray’s clothes and boots with quick, professional instructions like, “Lift your arms, please” or “give me your leg.”

Fraser’s standing so close that Ray can smell his shampoo and the scents of sleep that wash off his skin. Fraser smells good, and Ray wants to lean in and bury his nose in Fraser’s neck. But he makes himself stand still.

When he raises his arms so Fraser can pull his T-shirt off, Ray gets a whiff of himself—ewww—and flushes hotly in embarrassment. No doubt Fraser can still smell the vomit on his breath, and the alcohol, despite the teeth-brushing..

He’d like to apologize, but he guesses that Fraser must be used to it by now. That’s usually how Ray came to him back in Chicago, showing up late at night and reeking of gin or cheap whiskey. Tears too, sometimes.

Anyway. One more thing to add to the list of things he’d like to change, if he knew how.

When he’s finally stripped down to his boxers, Ray stands shivering while Fraser goes to his dresser and pulls out a pair of familiar red longjohns, just like the ones Fraser himself is wearing.

“I can sleep in my shorts, y’know,” Ray says, but Fraser ignores him.

“You’ll be warmer in these.”

He’s already helping Ray step into the longjohns, and only seconds later he’s working on the long trail of buttons that extend from his groin right up to his chest. Canadian pajamas.

Fraser’s fingers are warm against Ray’s bare skin, but before Ray can register the feeling as much more than a brief sensation, Fraser’s done and Ray is being tucked up in sheets that smell like Fraser, and Fraser is curled tight around him, like he somehow knew that Ray was going to shake apart unless he had someone to hold him together.

“Thanks, Fraser,” Ray mumbles. And slides easily into sleep.

***

He’s confused when he wakes up. Disoriented. The last few days are a jumble of airports and taxi cabs, and he hears the _clink-clink-clink_ sound of the little bottles of vodka rattling together in the flight attendant’s cart. But no, that’s the wind throwing chunks of ice against the window, and the background hum is the electric heater in Fraser’s bedroom, not the engine of an airplane.

It’s still dark outside, although it must be nearly 8am. Fraser’s wrapped around him, a comforting presence against Ray’s back. Fraser snuffles a little in his sleep, and burrows his face in close against the back of Ray’s neck. Ray reaches down and folds his hand over Fraser’s.

He’d forgotten this part. How good it felt to wake up next to Fraser on those rare winter mornings in Chicago. He’d always felt safe and warm in those brief moments, despite the frost on the window.

But this is what he came for, isn’t it?

He rolls over slowly and studies Fraser’s sleeping face. Ray only saw Fraser like this once or twice, back in the city. He’d had to be strict with himself, then, and force himself to get up and dress quietly in the dark before Fraser could wake up. Contemplation wasn’t exactly a luxury Ray could afford, back then.

But now he’s got some time to look—really _look_ —at Fraser. His face is softer in sleep, and although Ray can see the new lines and wrinkles that’ve formed there, Fraser looks almost like a little kid. Warm and innocent as he sleeps, untouched by pain, or fear, or disappointment. And Ray knows for a fact that Fraser’s had plenty of that in his life.

He tries not to think about it. Instead, Ray thinks about the good times they had together as partners in Chicago, or as friends out on a quest in the western Arctic. Laughing with Fraser, arguing with him. Being wrapped up tight in his arms at night, warm even though it was a million degrees below zero outside.

He’s not sure why he’s always felt so safe around Fraser. The guy was always irritating as hell, and he never, ever listened to Ray. But he had a good heart and he didn’t treat Ray like the fuck-up he truly was, and Fraser never—not once—asked Ray for an explanation. Not one time. Not even the first time, when Ray showed up at the Consulate drunk and desperate, and kissed Fraser so hard that he tasted blood.

Fraser’s always been good at staying silent when it matters.

Ray sighs, and thinks about that first time. Which isn’t something he usually lets himself do, because it was awkward and embarrassing, and over way too quickly. He was so drunk he wasn’t sure he’d be able to get hard enough to do much of anything, but Fraser’d helped him through it. Fraser had understood. He hadn’t asked any questions, just put his hands on Ray’s shoulders and pulled away slowly until Ray stopped mashing their mouths together, and then kissed Ray back gently, soothing him with his hands and mouth until Ray’s panic faded, and he began to kiss Fraser slowly.

Then Fraser had taken Ray by the hand and led him back to Fraser’s office, and he’d undressed Ray—weirdly, that was something Fraser usually did for him, now that Ray thought about it—and lain on top of him. They’d kissed for a while until Ray was hard, and then Fraser had calmly and very professionally sucked him off. It hadn’t taken Ray long to come. He’d lain there for a few moments, gasping for breath, and then jumped up, pulled on his clothes, and skedaddled.

It was only later, when Ray was back home, that he realized Fraser’d never said one single word.

The memory of Fraser’s silence so many years ago made Ray feel uncomfortable, and he shook his head, trying to clear it. Fraser was okay. He’d always opened the door for Ray and let him in, always undressed him and kissed him and stroked him, and he’d never asked any questions.

Perfect. Perfect, reasonable, _knowing_ Fraser. He’d always known exactly what Ray needed. What he needs.

So Ray doesn’t actually need to decide anything at all. Fraser’s here, Ray’s here, and like always, Ray needs.

He cups Fraser’s sleeping face gently, and kisses him awake. Fraser’s lips are soft and dry, like always. He’s familiar, just like Ray needs him to be right now. _This_ is familiar. Maybe he can forget about Chicago. Maybe he’ll stop dreaming of blood washing black against the city streets. Maybe. As long as he stays here, like this, with Fraser, and thinks about what he needs.

Fraser opens his eyes and blinks at Ray. His mouth goes slack, and he pulls away roughly, rubbing the back of his hand over his lips like he’s either trying to wipe away Ray’s kiss. Or maybe he’s just buying himself some time to figure out what’s going on.  
 “Good morning Ray,” Fraser says, and shakes his head a little, like it’ll help clear the fog away. His hair is tousled and matted in places, and his cheeks are pink. He’s blushing, Ray realizes. Fraser’s embarrassed.

“Hey, Frase,” Ray says, rolling onto his back and stretching. He knows that his full-body stretch will pull the longjohns tight over his erection, and that Fraser won’t be able to miss it. Not that Fraser would, anyway: he knows Ray’s body better than Ray himself does. “You sleep okay?”

“Yes, thank you kindly.” It looks like Fraser’s feeling a little more awake. Sleep has finally cleared from his face, and now Fraser just looks…confused. He’s staring at Ray’s face, and only when his eyes flick down to Ray’s cock for just a fraction of a second does Ray realize that Fraser’s trying to decide.

He’s never seen Fraser hesitate before. Not about this.

There’s a tightness in his gut that makes Ray feel a little sick. It’s worse than the feeling last night, when he wasn’t sure if Fraser was going to let him in. This tense, aching feeling is raw fear. Because what if Fraser doesn’t want to do this anymore? What if the rules changed when Ray wasn’t looking?

Fraser must’ve noticed the fear on Ray’s face, because he reaches over and sets his hand on Ray’s chest, sliding his thumb into the gap between the buttons so he can gently stroke Ray’s bare skin. It’s reassuring, and Ray closes his eyes.

“What happened, Ray?”

Ray’s heart sinks. He’s not ready to talk about it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. The kissing was good. So’s the touching. Why can’t they just go on doing that, and not talk about anything?

“I just wanted to see you,” he says, hoping that will be explanation enough. And it’s mostly true: he’s missed Fraser. Every day, he’s missed him.

 _But you only thought about getting on a plane yesterday,_ a little voice in his head reminds him. _Not before_.

When Ray finally opens his eyes, Fraser is staring at him. He’s confused. Worried. He licks his lips and drags one thumbnail over his eyebrow, and Ray puts his hand on Fraser’s cheek. “I wanted to see you, Fraser. Okay?”

“Okay,” Fraser says, and his voice only shakes a little. He’s watching Ray now with a dark-eyed intensity that makes Ray’s skin flush and tighten, and his heart start to beat faster. Ray knows that look.

“I…wanted to see you, too,” Fraser murmurs, and Ray’s cock swells in response to the low note in Fraser’s voice.

“That’s good,” Ray says, and Fraser reaches down to kiss him. He cups the back of Ray’s head and pulls him closer for a long, insistent kiss. Ray parts his lips, eager for the connection. And when Fraser slides his tongue into his mouth, Ray moans a little and moves his hips, brushing his dick against Fraser’s thigh so Fraser can feel his hard-on.

They both know the steps to this dance. They’ve done this hundreds of times before, in Ray’s apartment, in Fraser’s office at the Consulate, in motel rooms and tents, and even a couple of times in the backseat of Ray’s car. It’s as easy as breathing.

Fraser pulls away long enough to reach for something on the bedside table, and Ray strips out of his longjohns, fingers working unconsciously on the buttons as he watches Fraser twist back toward him and start unbuttoning, too. They’re naked in no time, and for a moment Ray stares at Fraser’s body. It’s changed in the last five years. Changed more than Ray would’ve thought.

Fraser’s lost weight. What he remembers as broad, healthy muscle is leaner. Tighter. Flesh cutting closer to the bone. His chest, his arms, his belly and his thighs have all shrunk a little. And there’s a new scar on his shoulder that wasn’t there the last time they did this. Ray knows his own body is probably different, too, although Fraser doesn’t seem too interested in looking at him.

In fact, he’s not looking at Ray at all. He’s staring down at the bottle of lube in his hands, almost like he doesn’t recognize it. Ray watches as Fraser shakes himself, pops the cap, and drizzles some of it into his hand. His mouth is set in a firm line, and now he looks focused. Resolved. Ray shivers a little, because he knows that look. He knows what it means.

Like Ray expected, Fraser pushes Ray onto his back. He doesn’t kiss Ray again, just slides two fingers into his body, twisting and pushing until Ray finally forces himself to relax and open up. It’s quick and efficient, and that’s different. Usually Fraser took his time with this part, moving carefully, always checking to see if Ray was okay. But now it’s fast, and weirdly automatic. Like Fraser’s going through some kind of internal checklist, and not feeling one way or another about it. His face is tough to read.

“I want you,” Ray says, and his voice is scratchy. “You want me?”

Instead of answering, Fraser just twists his fingers again, sending a brief flare of pleasure-pain up through Ray’s body. He jerks, and squeezes his eyes shut tight. He wishes he had something to bite down on. Not because it hurts, but because he can feel words building up inside him. Explanations. Apologies. Nothing he can say to Fraser, because words have never been a part of this thing between them.

He bites his lip instead, and focuses on Fraser’s fingers, moving inside him.

There’s a crinkle and a tearing noise—condom packet, and that’s different, too—and then Fraser’s hands are on his hips. One is dry and warm, the other slippery, and Fraser’s hold on him is tight as Fraser angles himself in. Ray brings his legs up, resting his calves on Fraser’s forearms, and lets himself sink down to meet Fraser’s cock. And Jesus, yes. _Yes._ This is what he came here for.

It turns desperate, then. Rough, like it’s never been before. Fraser starts out with a few slow, easy strokes, but soon he’s slamming into Ray, and Ray is thrusting up to meet him. Fraser's body bangs into Ray's, and Ray’s teeth click with each thrust until he gives up and clenches his jaw tight. He clings tightly to Fraser, digging his fingers deep into Fraser’s arms and back and whatever else he can grab. Fraser’ll probably be covered in bruises and scratches later on, like a lover in a movie.

Ray almost wants Fraser to stop, because this isn’t right. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. But he can’t say anything at all, because he can’t talk. All he can do is hang on, and listen to Fraser’s harsh panting. Sweat is building up between their bodies, and it’s hot in the small bedroom. So damn hot, and it _hurts_ , but it doesn’t.

Ray grabs for Fraser’s hand and drags it up off his hip, slips one of Fraser’s fingers into his mouth, and bites down hard. Fraser moans again, thrusts forward once, twice, three times, and comes.

When Fraser pulls out of Ray’s body it feels like he’s taking a piece of Ray with him. There’s an ache building up inside of Ray, and it’s a bad kind of ache. Ray reaches around and touches his hole, half-expecting there to be blood. But no, there’s nothing, just hot, abused flesh, and that awful aching pain.

He had no idea Fraser was so mad at him.

“Fraser, I—”

But Fraser rolls off the bed and heads for the bathroom. He still won’t look at Ray.

Ray sits up, wincing a bit. His whole body feels battered and bruised, but at least…at least he’s not thinking about anything. He didn’t come, and so he lies there idly for a moment, gripping his cock and deciding if he should bother. But he doesn’t want Fraser to come back and see him jerking off, not when Fraser’s upset like that. He’d meant to hurt Ray. Maybe not consciously, maybe not to actually cause him pain, but something in Fraser had wanted to damage him.

Ray knows Fraser better than he’s ever known anyone else. And Fraser has never treated him like that before. Not once.

He hears the toilet flush, and then water running in the bathroom sink. The door opens, flooding the room with light for a few brief seconds until Fraser hits the switch in the bathroom and kills the fluorescents. Ray blinks, trying to clear away the spots that dot his vision. He needs to see Fraser’s face.

The mattress dips, and when he can finally see clearly, he’s faced with Fraser’s broad, pale back. Fraser’s hunched over, head buried in his hands. The long curve of his body looks oddly vulnerable, and in the dim light, the scar at the small of his back looks like a bull’s eye.

“Why did you come?” Fraser’s voice is pitched low, but Ray can still hear the pain there. “I thought…I thought this was finished.”

“Yeah,” Ray says, sighing. He shoves a pillow behind his back so he can sit up a little. His body throbs in protest. “Things went bad in Chicago, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

A fine tremble runs through Fraser’s shoulders. Ray’s not sure if it’s anger, or if Fraser’s trying not to cry. Or laugh. “You shouldn’t have come here, Ray.”

“I know.” He does know that, now. “But Frase, there was this judge who—”

“I really don’t want to hear about it,” Fraser says. He sits there for another long moment and then gets up, going to his dresser to pull out a pair of snow-white boxers. “I’m going for a walk. There are a few decent motels downtown. I’d like you to…” He sucks in a deep breath, closes his eyes, and then finally looks at Ray. “When I come back, I’d rather that you be gone.”

Ray stares down at the rumpled mess of sheets, and smoothes out the sweaty creases made by their bodies. He remembers clenching his fist in the sheets, forcing himself not to push Fraser away, or pull him closer, when Fraser was inside him.

“Okay,” he says.  

And it hurts.

***

After the door slams behind Fraser and Dief, Ray takes a quick shower. He needs to get clean, and the scalding hot water keeps Ray focused enough so that he doesn’t have to think about anything at all.

There’s shampoo and conditioner on the plastic shelf hanging from the showerhead. It’s floral and it’s fruity, and it’s not something Fraser would ever buy for himself. Inside the medicine cabinet there’s a package of pink disposable razors.

And when Ray goes back into the bedroom, it’s light enough to see something he missed last night. There’s a photo of a woman on the bedside table. A Native woman, or Inuit, maybe. She’s wrapped up inside a big fur-lined parka, and smiling softly at the camera. Behind her is a wide, unbroken field of white snow, and a bright blue sky. There’s no one else in the picture with her, and Ray wonders if Fraser took the photo himself, or if she gave it to him. He’ll probably never know.

Once he’s dressed, he heads out into the grey cold. The sky is overcast, and all around him Churchill is cast in colors of white, brown and grey. Even the houses look faded and beaten down by the winter. It’s flat here, flat like Iowa or Kansas, and even though houses surround him, he can see the giant grain storage elevators that line the Churchill River, looking oddly like skyscrapers soaring up above this stunted little town.

He walks toward what he guesses must be the center of town. There’s not much town to speak of, really: a couple of residential streets, a fire hall, one apartment building, and a bunch of boarded-up businesses that cater to tourists during the summer, or what passes for summer up here.

There’s a string of motels in the little cluster of buildings that form the downtown core, and Ray’s got the Northern Lights Inn, the Polar Motel, or the Tundra Inn to choose from.

The Polar Motel seems to have the cheapest rates, so he checks in. The room is shabby and smells faintly like cigarettes, bleach and carpet shampoo, but it looks clean enough and the price is right. There are two beds, and he picks the one nearest the window, flops down, and closes his eyes.

He really fucked up. Fucked Fraser up, too. Why the hell did he have to come up here? He could have gone anywhere. Arizona. California. New York. Getting out of Chicago didn’t have to mean going to Fraser, and if he’d been thinking—

But that was the point, wasn’t it? He hadn’t been thinking. He’d come out the wrong end of a three-day bender, hands still soaked in the blood of those little girls, and he’d packed up his life, burned the rest of his stuff, and mailed his badge and gun to Welsh. Then he’d hopped on a plane. Thinking had nothing to do with it.

And yeah, part of the reason he’d come up here was because he needed Fraser. Always had, always would. Just because they’d decided not to—

Fuck. His head hurt. He could call down to the front desk for some Tylenol, but instead he heaves himself up out of bed, draws the curtains across the window, and lies back down. He should sleep. If he sleeps, he wouldn’t have to think anymore.

***

Someone is pounding on his door. BAM BAM BAM, like gunshots, and Ray sits up, heart racing. But no: someone’s just knocking, just a normal knock. Not like gunshots at all.

Ray slings his legs over the side of the bed and waits for the spell of dizziness to pass. His headache hasn’t let up, and his mouth feels like he’s swallowed a bunch of cotton balls. As he stands and stumbles over to the door, something in his body twinges deep down inside. But that he can ignore, just like the fruity-smelling shampoo and the pink razor blades in Fraser’s medicine cabinet, and the picture on the nightstand.

He’d hoped it would be the manager, but of course it isn’t. Fraser stands there, hat in hand, and Ray opens the door wide.

“How’d you find me?”

Fraser shakes his head. “There are only three motels, Ray.”

Ray accepts this little bit of wisdom and goes to sit on the lumpy bed. At least Fraser has the grace to look a little guilty when he sees how slowly and carefully Ray lowers himself down to the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” Fraser says, looking at the floor. “I behaved very poorly. You didn’t deserve—”

“What I deserve’s got nothing to do with it, Frase.”

He wishes he’d thought to stop and buy a pack of cigarettes. Or a bottle of something. He needs to keep his hands busy so they won’t shake. “Who’s the woman?”

Fraser jerks his head up. “The woman?”

“Yeah,” Ray says, waving at the doorway. “Your girl. Got her picture on your bedside table.”

“Ah.” Two little pink spots have appeared on Fraser’s cheeks, but Ray doesn’t think that Fraser is actually embarrassed. Guilty, maybe. Yeah, Ray’d bet solid money that Fraser’s feeling all kinds of guilt today. “Her name is Joon.”

For a moment it looks like Fraser is going to say something else. Offer an explanation, maybe. But he doesn’t, and the silence hums between them.

“Oh.” Ray can’t think of anything else to say. And Fraser doesn’t look like he’s particularly eager to explain himself, either. Okay. So they’re not going to talk about it. Fine. Great. Fantastic, even. Ray doesn’t give a shit about Fraser’s fucked-up relationships with other people. The woman thing had thrown him for a loop, that was all, and he’s curious about it. He’d just figured that Fraser would’ve stuck with guys after they’d ended their…whatever it’d been.

Ray sighs. When the hell had it gotten so hard to talk to his best friend?

“You angry with me?”

Fraser looks a little lost. “For this morning?”

“Maybe.” Ray shifts uncomfortably. “Or for…before. Whichever. You got a lot of reasons to hate me.”

“And I’m sure you have your own reasons to be angry with me.” Fraser looks like he’s going to start apologizing for getting so rough, but Ray isn’t ready to have that conversation yet. Not by a long shot. And anyway, it’d been a mutual thing. Just because Ray’s the one having trouble sitting down doesn’t mean that Fraser didn’t get hurt, too.

“Anyway,” he says, heading Fraser off before he can wind himself up. “Why’d you track me down?”

Fraser’s hands tighten around the brim of his hat, and Ray sees that his knuckles are white.

“What are you doing in Churchill, Ray?” It sounds like Fraser wants to know but doesn’t want to know at the same time. Not that Ray blames him.

“Things went bad on a case I was working.” And wow, wasn’t that the understatement of the year? ‘Bad’ didn’t even begin to describe it. “And I needed to get out of Chicago.”

“Yes,” Fraser interrupts. “So you said. That is, so you said earlier.” He sighs and runs his hand through his hair, mussing up the perfect brown waves. Ray can see strands of silver glistening at Fraser’s temples.

Ray rubs at his eyes. They feel grainy, like he’s slept facedown on a pile of sand. “I quit the force.”

He ignores Fraser’s little gasp of surprise. “Caught the first plane I could to get up here.” He stares down at the carpet, which seems safer than looking Fraser in the eye. “I just…don’t want to think anymore.”

“And you thought I could help you with that.” Fraser says it like it’s a fact. And yeah, maybe it is. Maybe Ray really had come up here to escape everything he couldn’t deal with back in Chicago. Maybe the only person who could make him forget, even for a little while, is Benton Fraser.

“I didn’t come up here just forget,” Ray says slowly. “I wanted to remember, too.”

Silence from the Mountie. He hears Fraser’s leather boots creak as he shifts his weight, and Ray tries to imagine what he’d see if he can gather up the nerve to look up at Fraser. More anger, he guesses. _Ray, you are a fuck up, and now you’ve brought your fucked-up self to come mess with my shot at a nice, ordinary life. Thank you kindly_.

But when Ray finally lets himself look at Fraser, Fraser just looks thoughtful. Beautiful, too, like always, but Ray doesn’t usually let himself think stuff like that about Fraser. It’d always made things messy. Complicated. And complications were the last thing either of them had ever wanted, even back when they’d lived in the same city.

“Grab your coat, Ray,” Fraser says, putting on his hat and firmly tugging down on the brim. “I’d like to show you something.”

***

They pile into Fraser’s department-issue SUV, and Dief barks at him from the back with a friendly little yip of acknowledgment.

“Heya, Dief,” Ray says. “No donuts, sorry.”

Dief groans a little and lies down in the backseat. Even the wolf is looking a little gray around the edges, but at least he’s consistent. Fraser gets in the SUV and starts it up, and gets them pointed toward the shoreline.

“Where’re we going?” Ray asks, watching Churchill zip by. In a few minutes the homes and businesses give way to rail yards and towering storage granaries. Beyond that is the icy expanse of Hudson’s Bay, and the wide mouth of the river that cuts into the land.

“We’re going to the Fort,” Fraser explains casually. “I thought you’d like to see it before you go.”

Ray folds his hands carefully in his lap. Done deal, then. Fraser isn’t even going to talk about the possibility of Ray staying.

They drive without speaking, and Ray watches the chilly ice-blue water toss and turn in the wind where the icepack hasn’t formed yet. Hudson’s Bay is a vast inland sea that cuts right through the heart of North America. Ray studied maps of it late at night on the Quest, lying next to Fraser in their sub-zero tent while the wind howled outside. Fraser’d said that the water in the Bay was so cold that a person would freeze within seconds if they fell in.

 Right now, Ray feels like it’s colder in the truck with Fraser.

“What’s worth seeing at the Fort?” he asks, just to break the silence a little. He can’t stand Fraser shutting him out like this. And why? Because they’d had sex? They’d done that a lot back in Chicago. And even on the Quest. Why is it different this time? Because Fraser had a girl? What the hell does that have to do with anything?

“It’s an impressive structure,” Fraser explains quietly, eyes locked firmly on the road. “I think you’ll find it interesting.”

“Yeah,” Ray mumbles. “Because I’m here to see the sights.”

Fraser doesn’t say anything in reply.

Fifteen minutes later they reached the very tip of the point where the land dropped away to the wide mouth of the river, and Fraser parks the jeep next to a little dock that extends out into the Bay. Ice has frozen around the pillars supporting the dock, but the motorboat moored to the dock is still floating freely. The RCMP logo—a silhouette of a Mountie on horseback—adorns the side of the boat, and so Ray figures this was sort of like Fraser’s own personal watercraft. But where it’s supposed to take them today, Ray doesn’t know.

“Could you free the line, Ray?” Fraser asks, pointing at the mooring line. Ray crouches down and begins to tug at the icy fibers, worried that he’ll have to cut the rope loose. He’s not wearing gloves or a real winter coat, just his unlined leather jacket, and in about twenty seconds his hands and arms are numb. He hears Fraser’s boots crunch on the snow-covered dock, and then a warm weight settles over him. A parka. A pair of gloves hit the dock by his feet.

“Your fingers are blue,” Fraser points out, and for a second his hand rests gently on Ray’s shoulder. In the next second, it’s gone.

Ray slides his arms into the parka and pulls on the gloves. When his fingers start working again, he finishes with the mooring line while Fraser starts up the twin-prop Evinrude motor. Ray and Dief jump into the boat, and Fraser guides them slowly away from the dock. The cold wind makes Ray’s eyes water, and he hopes they aren’t going far. Even with the parka, it’s just a little below -22degrees out on the water, and it’ll be even worse once they build up some speed. Chunks of ice float by, and all the water near the shore is frozen. He’s a little worried about hitting one of the bigger pieces of ice and shattering the hull, but Fraser doesn’t seem too concerned. He speeds up gradually, sending them bouncing over the waves toward the other shore.

They’re crossing a narrow channel of water between one point and another. The two points curve up toward each other like a pair of arms reaching out to draw someone close. Ray keeps his eyes locked on the other shore.

The only good thing is that, between the wind and the roar of the motor, he and Fraser don’t need to talk much. Ray can almost pretend that they’re headed out on some kind of adventure, and that this isn’t really going to be the last thing that he and Fraser’ll ever do together.

Dief crawls up to the prow of the little motorboat and sits beside Ray. Ray loops his arm around the wolf and buries his face in Dief’s fur, ignoring the way the cold and the wind made his eyes water, making his tears freeze against Dief’s white fur.

They’ve finally slowed, and Fraser shouts at Ray to use the axe under his seat to smash the ice that frozen near their docking point. The shattering of the ice makes a POP POP POP noise, but at least this time Ray doesn’t think of gunfire. Once Ray’s smashed enough of the ice, Fraser nods in a directionless little acknowledgment, and powers the boat up to the dock. Ray jumps out and ties the boat up.

He stands, and shades his eyes against the weak midday sun. There’s a little rise up ahead. Not much more than a small hill, really, but in this pancake-flat country it seems like a mountain. A path winds up along the hilltop, and Dief runs ahead, barking at something only a deaf wolf could hear. Ray lets Fraser move up ahead, and he trudges behind him, watching Fraser’s loping hill-climber’s stride eat up the distance like it’s nothing. By the time they’ve reached the top, Ray is puffing.

“Are you all right?” Fraser asks, some emotion finally filtering into his voice. Slight concern, not much more, but Ray’s not picky. Not right now.

 _No_ , he wants to scream. _No, I’m not all right. I got two little girls killed in Chicago, and I ran away because I couldn’t face it. And because I need you_.

But he can’t say that. Instead, Ray says, “Yeah, sure Frase. I’m fine,” and takes a look around. He steps back, surprise jolting through him. A huge stone wall rises up out of the grassy hill, eclipsing the view of the Bay and the winter sky above.

“What the hell is this, Fraser?” Ray asks, startled. The wall seems to have come from nowhere. It doesn’t seem to belong in this cold, flat, ugly land. That’s obvious, even to Ray. It looks like aliens just set it down, or like it’d appeared by magic. Ray reaches out and touches the wall, noting the small, perfect join of the stone blocks.

“This is the Prince of Wales Fort, Ray,” Fraser tells him, and tugs on his elbow. Ray lets Fraser pull him to the left, and he finally understands that the big black _thing_ isn’t just a wall, it’s a part of a solid four-sided structure that runs for a half-mile in each direction.

Ray sputters a little. “Where’d it come from?” He can’t stop touching the cold black stone. The rock hasn’t been cut from here: it looks like black granite, and the cliffs ringing the Bay are all white limestone.

“The Hudson’s Bay Company built the Fort,” Fraser explains. “They brought the stone from England.”

Ray waits, but Fraser doesn't to launch into one of his long-winded explanations about the history of the Fort’s construction, or its value as a symbol of dead Europeans or colonialism or something. Instead, Fraser just squints up at the top of the battlement, where Ray can see a canon mouth peeking out. The canon is pointing at the Churchill River.

“Come on,” Fraser says, brushing against his arm. “Let’s take a look.”

They enter the fort and climb up a short set of stairs, entering what Fraser says is the courtyard. The whole place is deserted. Wind howls through the empty archways and crumbling stone passages, and there are no buildings inside the large square courtyard, just sets of steps leading up to the battlements where the canons are mounted.

One flagpole stands like a tall, lonely tree in the middle of the empty courtyard, and the Canadian maple leaf flag flaps there listlessly, crusted over with ice. Below that is a flag Ray doesn’t recognize.

On the flag, two stags look like they’re holding up a gold shield decorated with a red cross, and above that perches a little fox. It makes no sense to Ray, but then historical stuff rarely does. He figures that Fraser can always explain it to him, if it’s important.

“That’s the old Company crest,” Fraser says, finally noticing what Ray is looking at. “It’s rarely used nowadays.”

“The company still exists?”

“Yes, of course it does,” Fraser says, sounding surprised that Ray would even ask. “The HBC is the oldest corporation in the world. The Company owned half of Canada at one point. They still have department stores all over the country.”

Ray scratches his head, staring up at the two flags. “You’ve got a weird country, Fraser.”

Fraser’s smile is soft, and familiar in a way that makes Ray’s heart twist. “I suppose so, Ray. Shall we?”

He leads the way across the courtyard and up one of the stone staircases, which has been worn away by the feet of thousands of tourists and other visitors to the fort over the years. When they reach the top of the battlement, Ray sucks in a deep breath. The fort is the highest point for miles, aside from the big granaries back across the river in Churchill. Even those look like child’s toys, far away across the water and hunkered down beside the railroad tracks that snake south back toward Winnipeg. Churchill itself is little more than a hazy mass of small homes and buildings; Ray can see the whole town, end to end.

Wind whips through his hair and chills his face, and he squints into it, trying to see the Bay. Ice has started to form over most of the water, and in another couple of weeks it looked like even the open water they’d crossed in the motorboat would close over, sealing the town in until spring break-up.

“What’s it like up here in the winter?” Ray asks. Fraser leans on the battlement beside him, looking down at the river below.

“Lonely,” he says. “Churchill is accessible only by air in the winter. The tourists will start to arrive in March, when the polar bears migrate off the ice. It’s happening earlier and earlier every year.” He sighs, looking out over the water, and Ray fights the urge to touch his arm.

“But you’ve got somebody now,” Ray says, and at first he’s not sure if Fraser heard him. He keeps his head turned away. But finally Fraser risks a glance at Ray’s face, and Ray is surprised to see confusion in Fraser’s eyes. “Joon, I mean.”   Fraser’s face closes over like the ice on Hudson’s Bay. “Ah,” Fraser says, which means that he doesn’t really say anything at all.

“Can you tell me about her?”

Fraser knits his fingers together, and for a second Ray’s sure that he’s not going to answer. “She’s…an old friend,” Fraser says slowly. “We knew each another as children. And when I took the post here, we reconnected. She’s a lovely woman, Ray.”

Yeah, Ray’d guessed that. Judging from the photo, Joon wasn’t much in the looks department, but there’d been something about her smile and the way she held herself in the picture that made Ray think she was kind. And that was good. Fraser deserved someone who was kind to him.

“How long you been seeing her?” Ray isn’t sure why he wants to know. He doesn’t care about Joon-the-girlfriend. Not at all.

“About a year. She has a son,” Fraser tells him, and inside his mittens, Ray clenches his fists. “I thought…well. I thought that I could finally be a part of something.”

“Weren’t you always?” Ray asks, and when Fraser glances at him, he finishes it. “The RCMP, I mean. And you and me, being partners. That was something.”

“Something, yes,” Fraser says thoughtfully. “But not enough.” Fraser sets his hands on the shelf of granite that forms the battlement and stares down at them, like he doesn’t even recognize his hands as a part of his body. “Truthfully, Ray, Joon and I aren’t seeing each other right now. We’re…taking a break.” He pronounces the phrase carefully, like it doesn’t fit right in his mouth. Like the words belong to somebody else.

“Oh,” Ray says, feeling selfishly relieved that Fraser hadn’t cheated on his girlfriend. Glad because the guilt would’ve eaten Fraser up inside, and gladder still because it means that Fraser—that there might still be a chance that Fraser—

“You in love with her?”

“No,” Fraser says, “no, I’m not. But I wish I were.”

Fraser’s honesty catches Ray off guard. He’s never heard Fraser talk about his feelings like this. Fraser usually danced around these kind of things. Or at least, he’d always danced around the _thing_ with Ray. Fraser, who loved words, had never been able to name whatever it was that’d grown up between them those months in Chicago. Ray supposes that’s all part of the same problem.

“Can I ask you a question?” he says, and Fraser turns once again to look at him. He gives Ray a little nod, like he’s expecting Ray to ask something serious. Something dangerous. Maybe he’s right. “What do you want, Fraser?”

“What do I want?” he repeats. Whenever Fraser had done that in the past, it’d always made Ray want to smack him. But he knows now that it’s just Fraser’s way of figuring things out.

“Yeah,” Ray says. “Like, imagine if some genie or animal spirit or something popped up right in front of you, and said that, because you’d been a good little Mountie all your life and had eaten your Brussels sprouts and always said your prayers, you’d get three wishes. Whatever you want. What would you wish for?”

Fraser’s quiet for a long, long time. He seems to be thinking it over, or maybe he’s just trying to figure if he can abandon Ray here in this creepy, barren fort on the edge of the frozen sea.

“Three wishes, you said?”

“Yeah, Fraser,” Ray tells him. “Whatever you want.”

Fraser licks his lips. “I’d like to stop feeling so lonely and frightened all the time.”

“And?”

He can tell Fraser really, really doesn’t want to answer, but Fraser pushes on anyway. “I’d like to go back to the end of our adventure, and beg you to stay. Or beg you to take me with you. And I’d like that wishing for either of those things didn’t make me hate myself for being so damned weak.”

He doesn’t look at Ray, and Ray feels a heavy, sinking feeling settle in his gut. He puts his hand on Fraser’s arm, and when Fraser looks at him, Ray pulls off his gloves with his teeth and sets his cold hands on Fraser’s cold cheeks.

“What are we doing out here, buddy?”

“Saying goodbye, I think,” Fraser says. He puts his hands over Ray’s.

Neither of them move, and Ray can’t tell if either of them are still breathing. He guesses they must be, because he’s watching Fraser’s breath puff out in a little fog of air.

“Ray, what happened in Chicago?”

The question catches him off guard, and he steps away, kicking at the old battlement wall. “I fucked up, that’s all. Like usual.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Fraser says quickly, and puts a gentle hand on Ray’s shoulder. “Please tell me.”

Ray scrubs a hand through his hair. Okay. Okay, he can do this. He can say the words once, and then Fraser will know and they’ll never have to talk about it again.

They were saying goodbye, after all. Better to say all the important stuff now, even if it’s too late.

Ray closes his eyes, and sees blood spreading black like an oil slick under the sodium streetlights of Chicago.

“Some judge was pimping out these girls,” he says. “The judge’d figure out which ones were the most vulnerable at their bail hearing, and then he’d make private deals to drop their solicitation charges if they’d fuck him and his friends. One of the girls, Keisha, came to me and told me about it. I worked the case for a while and got some evidence on how he was running the girls.”

“They were underage?”

Ray nods. “Yeah, most of them. Runaways. Wards of the state. No one to stand up for them. Youngest was about eleven.” That had been Keisha’s little sister. “Anyway, I fucked it up. Someone tipped off the judge about the investigation, and just before we were set to raid his place, he had two of the girls killed. Slit their throats so they couldn’t testify against him.”

Fraser’s quiet. “But you caught him.”

“Yeah,” Ray says. “Not that it mattered. The judge was connected. His friends in City Hall and the ADA’s office worked their magic, and suddenly there’s problems with how I got the evidence. Problems with the paperwork. And the confession the judge made was ruled inadmissible because they said I wouldn’t let the scumbag see his lawyer.”

Ray doesn’t want to see the question in Fraser’s eyes. It’d kill him, to check Fraser’s face and see _Is it true?_ reflected there. So he stares at the water until he’s sure Fraser’s not looking at him.

“And then?”

“And then the ADA dropped the case. Lack of evidence. She was real sorry about it, but the favors the judge’d done for Daley and organized crime in the city trumped two little dead girls.”

Ray falls silent, and listens to the wind whistle through the old stone archways.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” he says. And Fraser, who had once told Ray that they did what they did so good people could tuck their kids in at night and know that they’d be safe, now says nothing at all.

“Anyway, finish your story,” Ray says quickly, wiping at his eyes. He wants to press his cold, cracked lips to Fraser’s mouth, to give some kind of heat and life to both of them. But he doesn’t. He just watches as Fraser pulls away like a rock dropping down into the sea. “What happened to the people who built this fort?”

“They lost it,” Fraser says, and his voice sounds sad and shaky, but then he seems to steady himself. “The British and the HBC spent more than forty years building it, and they lost it to a group of French warships in a single day in 1767. Not a shot was fired. Only twenty-two men were manning the Fort, and Samuel Hearne, who was governor at the time, quickly realized the futility of fighting. He signaled for surrender and sailed for Europe the next day.”

“Knew there was no point, huh?”

“Samuel Hearne was a very practical man,” Fraser says simply. “He carved his name into the rock under the Fort before he left. We could take a look at it, if you like.”

“Sure,” Ray says, shrugging. What did it matter now? What did anything matter, now that he’d stopped being a cop, and he and Fraser’d finally called it quits? He’d burned his last bridge, destroyed his last refuge. That little dream he’d had of living up here with Fraser, where things were safer and cleaner and not bloody like Chicago, was gone. No genie was going to appear and give Ray what he wished for.

He just had to learn to live with it.

They make their way back down to the boat, and Ray turns around, amazed at how the little rise up to the fort from the dock obscured the whole massive structure, like it’d never been there at all. Just like a dream that somebody’d had, once.

He sits back in the boat with Dief and Fraser motors them away, heading around the edge of the cliff bank this time, and not back across the mouth of the river toward the town.

Fraser guides the boat up to the limestone shelf that rises out of the ocean. They can’t get really close because of the ice formations, but Fraser does his best, and soon Ray can make out the words carved into the cliff:

  


“He carved that inscription exactly one hundred years to the day before Canada became a country,” Fraser says.

“Looks like he put it there yesterday.”

Fraser nods. “The rock holds its memories well.”

“You think he was scared? Going back home after being defeated here?”

Fraser stares thoughtfully at the inscription. “I imagine so. He’d been living in Canada for quite some time. I’m not sure what he had to go back to.”

 _Fuck it,_ Ray thinks. _What have we got to lose, here?_

He climbs over the empty bench seats, and plunks himself down beside Fraser.

The boat rocks dangerously, Dief yips, and for a second Ray is sure they’re all going to be pitched into the icy water and die of hypothermia in twenty seconds. But the boat rights itself, and Ray ends up crushed against Fraser. The elbow of his parka is dripping wet.

“Fuck it,” he says aloud, and then brings his lips to Fraser’s mouth.

Fraser’s lips are chapped and his mouth is dry and his kiss is unsure and tentative. But Ray doesn’t care. He kisses Fraser because they’ve been idiots, and he kisses Fraser because Ray hurt him, and he kisses Fraser because Fraser hurt _him_. Mostly, Ray kisses Fraser because Fraser is a goddamn stubborn bastard who talks all the time but never _says_ anything. And because when he does, Fraser always says “goodbye” instead of “stay.”

When Ray finally pulls himself away from Fraser, he sees that Fraser’s cheeks are pink again, and that his lips are shiny with saliva. As though he needs to confirm what happened, Fraser reaches up to touch his own lips. His hand shakes a little.

“Ray?”

“I’m not going back,” Ray says, “and that’s final. I got nothing to go back to, Fraser. Nothing.”

Fraser wipes carefully at his mouth. “That’s a big decision, Ray.” He’s looking at Ray now, at least, and that’s an improvement.

“Yeah,” Ray agrees. “But it feels good to finally make one.”

He catches the look of hurt that flashes across Fraser’s face before Fraser manages to paper it over. Ray frowns and takes Fraser’s cold, mittened hand. “You’re not the second-best choice here, Fraser. You’re not a consolation prize because I can’t be a cop no more.”

“How can you be sure?” Fraser says, swallowing hard. Ray wonders what it cost Fraser to ask that question.

“Because I love you,” he says, surprised that saying it—finally saying it—doesn’t cost him anything at all. He says the words freely, embarrassed only because he should have said it years ago. “Ben, I love you,” he says again, just because he can.

“I—” Fraser starts to say, and then closes his mouth and cracks his neck. “I love you too, Ray.”

For a second Ray is terrified that there’s going to be a “but” on the end of that sentence. When Fraser doesn’t say anything else, Ray lifts his head, startled by the emotion he can feel in Fraser’s aging, tired body. It runs through him like a current; Ray can feel it in Fraser’s hand, his grip strong but gentle, too.

 _That’s what you came here for_ , something inside him says.

He kisses Benton Fraser again, in the little boat on the edge of the vast arctic sea. Around them, the ice cracks and the waves rock.

Ray thinks about carving his name into the land, just to prove that he’s finally here.

  


THE END

  


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